


Homebound

by stcrmpilot



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: AAAAAAAAAAAA, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Audio 08.00: Enemy Lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 23:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20714381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stcrmpilot/pseuds/stcrmpilot
Summary: A quiet moment following Brax's less-than-glorious return to Gallifrey.





	Homebound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thebraxiatelcollection (songofgallifrey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/songofgallifrey/gifts).

It’s never the planet that Brax misses on his various jaunts offworld, not really. Gallifrey is lovely enough, of course, and he appreciates it just as any connoisseur of art in their right mind would, but it never has been enough for him. Life in the Capitol has always been too oppressive for his tastes, and the rest of the universe all too tempting; it’s simply no match. It doesn't tend to keep him around for long these days—only as long as he’s required—and he figures it won’t be long this time either before he’s off again. But he does miss the little things. 

The little things—like the halfhearted grumble that Narvin gives when Brax lays his free hand on his back, turning his attention from his book to trace patterns through the freckles between his shoulder blades. Brax smiles, watching from his position sitting against the headboard as Narvin shifts in an attempt to shrug him off, too comfortable to bother rolling over to stop him. 

“Are you  _ ticklish? _ ” Brax asks, highly amused. He takes mercy, stroking his thumb over the subtle ridge of his spine and admiring the lines of his back in the warm light of his desk lamp. 

Narvin’s emphatic huff is muffled into his pillow. “No,” he mumbles. 

“Ah,” says Brax, and moves his hand to ghost his fingers over the back of Narvin’s neck. Narvin makes a noise adjacent to a squeak and squirms away from Brax’s touch. 

“Fine!” he gasps. “Fine, yes!”

Laughing, Brax abandons his book altogether in favour of shuffling down beside him, cuddling up to his back and slipping an arm beneath his chest. In a fit of affection he kisses the nape of his neck, and the crook of his shoulder, and nuzzles into his back, holding him close and revelling in his warmth, the soft, clean scent of his skin, the way he sighs long-sufferingly even as he covers Brax’s hand with his own. There’s so much he’s forgotten, he realizes, so many tiny details that it never occurred to him to miss. But he does now; it hurts, profoundly, to think he’s been losing out on all this without even noticing. He’s almost taken aback by the strength of it. He draws a calming breath, lays his cheek on Narvin’s shoulder, and tries to put it out of his mind. 

Ever-vigilant, Narvin seems to sense the change in his mood. He goes still, relaxing into Brax’s arms, and curls his fingers around Brax’s hand, wordlessly prompting him to twine their fingers together. Brax watches him idly run his thumb over the ridge of his knuckles, and knows he’s deep in thought by now. Though he wishes he had the foresight not to compromise the light, relaxed tone they’d fallen into, he waits in silence and stillness. A conversation, a proper one, is likely inevitable, and if it must happen he would rather Narvin be the instigator. Against every ounce of his better judgement, it warms his hearts to hear him open up once in a while. 

It’s a long, somewhat tense moment before he finds his voice. 

“Braxiatel,” he says, hardly above a whisper, and seems to regret it immediately. “I– I… er…” 

His evident anxiety causes a sympathetic ache in Brax’s chest; he decides to bite the bullet. He shifts closer still, turning to press his lips to the side of his neck, and squeezes his hand tight. 

“It’s alright,” he murmurs. “It’s alright, dear. What is it?”

After some hesitation, Narvin buries his face in his pillow and sighs resignedly. 

“It’s lonely,” he mumbles. “Without… without you here. I…” He lets himself trail off, and exhales shakily; Brax thinks for a moment he’ll manage to finish his thought, but he remains silent. Dread forms a knot in Brax’s stomach. 

It’s something of a novelty, for Narvin. He simply isn’t the type to verbalize such things, nor does he typically enjoy hearing them himself, and Brax is more than happy to oblige; a hell of a burden off his shoulders, really, that Narvin prefers to express himself without words. It’s rare, very rare, that he deems something important enough to talk about. Brax is truly shocked that this  _ something  _ is him. 

Shocked and touched, he supposes. For although he knew already, it’s oddly nice to hear confirmation that Narvin enjoys his company, at least somewhat, that his absence was felt by someone and that he was indeed missed, despite the former coordinator’s claims to the contrary. He knows it was an effort, purposeful and premeditated, for Narvin to admit it—about as close to a heartfelt confession as he’ll ever get—and he treasures it, if he’s honest with himself, it makes him want to stay right here, with Narvin curled in his arms, until he forgets what it is to be lonely. And at the same time he resents it, because he can't. He can't stay, because he knows what’s coming for Gallifrey and for him, he can't even be sorry for it, and funnily enough Narvin deserves much better than that. 

Brax realizes he’s drawn back from Narvin, somewhere in the process of fighting his instinct to run from the current topic of conversation, and Narvin has noticed. He’s gone very still, frozen like a hunted animal, like he expects some sort of reprisal for his admission. He’s afraid—and quite suddenly, Brax can’t bear it. 

He places a hand on Narvin’s arm. “Narvin,” he whispers. “Narvin? Look at me?”

There’s a pause; then Narvin shuffles onto his side, facing Brax, looking rather apprehensive. Brax makes a small, sad noise, and lies down next to him, face to face, not quite touching but so intimately close that he can pick out each individual streak of gold lamplight in his eyes, every single faint freckle across the bridge of his nose and scattered over his cheekbones. He’s drawn, almost inexorably, to brush his thumb over those freckles, cupping his cheek in his palm and watching the anxiety in his expression ease, ever so slightly—and it hits him, a pang deep in his chest, just how  _ privileged  _ he is, that the number of people Narvin would ever trust with his affection and his anxiety and his bed can most certainly be counted on one hand, and that in return there are very very few with whom Brax would ever dream of doing this. It’s terribly odd. Narvin is ornery and difficult and paranoid to a fault, and for some inscrutable reason he seems to have developed a soft spot for Brax, and Brax hasn’t a clue why it makes him feel so wonderfully short of breath, why in this moment he wants nothing more than to show him every kindness, every gentleness, every reward in the universe for daring to bare his hearts even the slightest bit. More importantly, he can't fathom why he’s perfectly willing to indulge himself, just this once. Perhaps he loves him. 

Perhaps that should be cause for concern, but right now he can't be bothered; he’s busy watching the flickers of Narvin’s expression as he slides his fingers ever so gently to rest at his temple. 

“Brax?” Narvin asks quietly. “What…”

Brax shuts his eyes, leaning forward to nudge his forehead against Narvin’s. “Contact?” he whispers, unable to suppress a slight waver in his voice. 

He hears Narvin’s sharp intake of breath, and the click as he swallows. He expects some resistance—a questioning, at the least, of what exactly he wants to do with Narvin’s mind, possibly some verbal jousting. Instead he gets a fervent nod, and Narvin’s fingers brushing along his jaw as he moves to cup the back of his neck, pulling him just a bit closer. 

An embarrassingly powerful relief washes over him. Narvin sees it, his confusion and apprehension echoing back along their mental connection as Brax opens his mind to him, ever so carefully unsealing certain times, certain memories, certain feelings. Not everything, stars, no—his dreadful sentimentality may have briefly fried both his inhibition and his sense of dignity, but some instincts are just too base to override—but so much. Too much, really, for his own good, and he can’t quite care enough to stop. 

He shows Narvin his own apprehension, his discomfort, lurking at the edges of his awareness, and above it the soothing, sweeping warmth of simply being here, with him, the desperate fondness that keeps tripping his hearts up. He shows him the moment he stepped out of his TARDIS, his glee as he watched Narvin stammer and splutter his surprise, and he shows him the unexpected joy he felt when Narvin came to see him later of his own accord, the way his breath caught as he grabbed his tie and kissed him, the utter delight at being able to hold him and touch him and be held in return. And he goes further, because he knows he can't explain and can't apologize and he owes Narvin more than that, and shows him the very last glimpse he got of him and Romana and Leela, an identical horror on all of their faces as he fell through the Axis portal; he recalls the paralyzing terror, some time after getting his bearings back, when it struck him that he hadn’t a clue how he would ever see any of them again and that he wasn't prepared to face that reality; and he remembers the exact moment it occurred to him that Narvin might miss him, grieve for him, without ever knowing he had survived, and in his head tells him just how much he regretted that fact, how he wishes he could’ve been there,  _ oh, Narvin, have you any idea how brave you’ve been, all this time? No–  _ he strokes the line of his cheekbone–  _ no, you always are too hard on yourself. But you are, you are brave, and strong, and brilliant—and lovely, isn't that odd? I never would have thought it, before the Axis, and how foolish of me for it because you can be so lovely when you wish to be. A right pain in the arse of course but such an endearing one, shocking I know, and clever and selfless, so much more selfless than I could ever hope to be, loyal and wonderfully stubborn and  _ mine  _ and I’d hardly have it any other way, would I now, oh, Narvin, Narvin, I… I–  _

It hits him wrong, then: what he’s done, what he’s said, even without words, to what he’s just very nearly confessed. He cuts off their connection before Narvin can feel the shame and embarrassment and regret that wells up in his chest, tightening painfully around his throat—an entirely subconscious reaction, and all the more powerful for it. He wonders if it’s too late to roll over and return to his book with a witty remark (most likely) or if it’d be terribly cruel to get up and leave (most definitely) and settles on remaining still, frozen, his fingers still at Narvin’s temple and eyes still shut, fighting to stay calm. It occurs to him that this should serve as a valuable lesson as to why he never does such things, because he hates himself rather a lot for it at the moment. 

Perhaps Narvin knows it; perhaps he’s more perceptive than Brax gave him credit for. His hand moves slowly, careful not to startle, first brushing his fingers over his cheek in a calming gesture, then coming to rest on his arm. Cautious, unsure of what he’ll find, Brax opens his eyes to see that Narvin has hardly moved, looking at him from no further than the other side of his pillow. He appears almost dazed, wide-eyed, a distinct blush colouring his cheeks—and he’s smiling, Brax realizes with some surprise, he’s doing his very best to hide it but there is most certainly a tentative smile on his face. 

“I, er…” He gives an awkward little cough. “I know,” he mumbles, making a clumsy attempt at sounding offhandish. “You don't have to  _ say  _ it.”

Brax is stock still for a moment longer, processing. Then a matching smile begins to tug at his lips, just as sheepish and possibly even fonder. 

“Well,” he says softly, “thank Rassilon for that, then.”

The corners of Narvin’s eyes crinkle in a rather rare expression of happiness, and an affectionate ache sets up between Brax’s hearts. “Quite r–” he manages, before Brax moves forward in a rush and cuts him off with a kiss, insistent but not the slightest bit hurried, one hand cupping Narvin’s cheek and the other laid flat over one heart. He just catches the sound of his name, whispered in the space between breaths, and then he’s shifting to pepper Narvin’s cheek and forehead in kisses—an apology, in a way, or atonement, or simply a conclusion to his curtailed admission, he isn't sure and doesn't need to know—and Narvin is laughing at the sensation, his arms settling around Brax’s shoulders, and Brax thinks in that moment that Gallifrey might just be worth the trouble after all. 

After a minute of this treatment, Brax leans down and presses a few lazy kisses to his jaw and throat before resting his head on his chest, lying mostly on top of him and savouring his closeness, the strong, steady beat of his hearts beneath his ear. With a contented little noise, Narvin strokes his fingers through Brax’s hair, his hand stilling at the back of his neck. 

“And now we needn’t ever go through that again,” Brax sighs, only half joking. 

Narvin chuckles in agreement, and he’s only half serious. But they both know what the other means, and it’s perfectly fine if neither wants to say it. 

Silence falls for some time, Narvin gently playing with Brax’s hair and Brax tracing patterns over his chest. Then Narvin pauses, and props himself up on one elbow. 

“Brax?” he murmurs. 

Brax lifts his head to look up at him. 

“I missed you too,” he says quietly—though the effect is rather ruined by the smirk on his face. 

Brax pauses, then shakes his head, smiling despite the teasing, and buries his face against Narvin’s chest. “Git,” he mumbles. 

Narvin lays back down, shaking Brax with his laughter as he wraps his arms tight around him. “Prat,” he retorts, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head before resuming his idle stroking. 

It’s quite possibly the best welcome Brax could’ve hoped for. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [stcrmpilot.tumblr.com](https://stcrmpilot.tumblr.com)!


End file.
